That Friday evening, we stopped at GreenLeaf Market after school. The store smelled like fresh bread and roasted coffee beans, the kind of comforting scent designed to make people slow down and spend more money. Chloe pushed the cart while telling me about a science project, her voice excited and fast, when my attention drifted toward the bakery section.
A man stood there alone.
He looked out of place immediately — layered clothing despite warm air, worn boots, hair uneven as if cut without a mirror. His shoulders were slightly hunched, not aggressive but cautious, like someone used to apologizing for existing. He picked up a loaf of whole-grain bread, turning it slowly in his hands as though calculating something important.
I felt irritation before I understood why.
Maybe it was stress from work. Maybe unpaid bills. Maybe fear disguised as judgment.
But instead of ignoring him, I walked straight toward customer service.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly, my voice carrying farther than intended. “That man just handled the bread with dirty hands. Someone could get sick.”
